now foists a fervid front of gray-haired “friends”
preparing for the pastor’s primal pace
to simulate the Savior’s sacrifice.
The ancient ambiance agitates anew
the deep devotion drowned in deadly depths
of inbound self-iconoclastic ills:
this is the rite revived for reverence
from childhood’s candour church-inspired.
The congregation’s early circumspect
response recedes in raw and rare respect
as ageless anthem blends and billows up
above the multifarious migrants’ midst,
proclaiming papal patronage and pride
in Peter’s pastoral and rock-based post.
Here is a sea of servant-saintliness
that meshes all in missionary mode:
the brown, the black, the blonde—or balding beau—
each voice is vibrant with a vital verve
to urge an undiminished unity
of charismatic choice and certitude.
This Sunday’s sequence segues into a surge
that purges out a problematic past:
renews a childhood’s church-oriented choice
to turn around the transient’s truant trip
back to the Savior’s stable safety stop.
Here at Mackillop’s mesmerizing Mass—
where migrant militancy meet and match—
the servant-soul surmounts a Second Spring
to where the wayward winds its weary way:
A haven in the hallowed harvest-home
Where Mary meets her mammoth mothered mass!
(Written after the poet’s granddaughter, Sydney resident Giselle Goloy, brought her grandmother for the first time to hear Mass at the awe-inspiring Mary Mackillop Memorial Chapel on Jan. 10, 2010, the date that marks the 29tth death anniversary of the author’s mother—a remarkable coincidence!)